


Puzzle 3301|Chapter 1

by KaileyFox



Series: Puzzle 3301 [2]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 02:44:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11659974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaileyFox/pseuds/KaileyFox





	Puzzle 3301|Chapter 1

Darkness enveloped me. I could see nothing, feel nothing. 

_GGWWwgghh…_

           But maybe it was better that way, I thought. I couldn’t see nor feel, but I could certainly hear. And what assailed my ears was a stentorian grating that resonated all around, like two boulders scouring the floor I stood upon.

           Suddenly a spotlight descended upon me from above, my hand thrusting forth to shield against an effulgent light more blinding than any darkness. Seconds later my sights adjusted and I inadvertently glanced to my left. I wish I hadn’t. Only a few metres away stood what I could just barely make out to be a barrier of some sort in the shadows.

_GGWWwgghh…_

           And it was closing in. I had a feeling I knew what was happening but I glanced to the right anyway. There was another moving barrier. Just as I thought. I was trapped between them.

_GGWWwgghh…_

           My heart thumped in my throat, blood roaring in my ears as my mind reeled through potential solutions. Could I push them back? No, of course not. They were walls after all. Could I tunnel my way out? I tapped my foot on the floor. It was as solid as what I imagined those walls were made of. No tunnelling out of this… Could I go up? I glanced to the ceiling to see there wasn’t one. Just empty space that seemed to taunt me into trying to escape. I couldn’t, however, for the walls were too tall.

_GGWWwgghh…_

           And still taller they grew as they grated ever closer. I swallowed, a nearly uncontrollable urge to panic threatening to overwhelm my composure. Launch yourself at the walls… Pound your fists against the floor… Scratch every surface until your fingers bleed! _Anything!_ So I forced myself to shut my eyelids and think calmly, rationally. I couldn’t go down or up, left or right, but… My eyes opened as a solution came to me. Perhaps I could go around… Perhaps there was a switch here, a mechanism of some sort that would allow me to put a stop to my untimely passing. I looked about the floor, along the edges of the walls. No switch or lever here… The other side? I turned round to search.

           But that’s when I saw it. Towering overhead as if looking down upon me was the face of a massive pocket watch. Its minute and second hands were spinning out of control while the hour hand approached 8am—the deadline. _My_ deadline.

_GGWWwgghh…_

           The walls heaved nearer, my eardrums ringing with their shrieks. They were just feet from crushing me now. As the light above began to shine upon them, I couldn’t help glancing to them again, like staring at a fatal wound spurting blood, uselessly willing it to stop as I waited for an answer in any form to come to me.

           It seemed, to my surprise, I didn’t have to wait long. While staring at the walls, certain of my demise, I came to realise they were made of not concrete or brick, but paper. Stacks and stacks of paper. All of them I had yet to research for, yet to finish writing.

           That was it…

           I clenched my teeth tight in determination, turning back around and running for my next interview. Surely this was the answer… If I could finish my work, the walls would stop!

           But the faster I ran, I dreaded to find, the further I got from my destination and the closer I came to the pocket watch.

_GGWWwgghh… GGWWwgghh…_

           And still the stacks of my unfinished assignments moved in until their cold surfaces pinned my arms to my sides, jerking me to a jarring stop in place. I turned my head, the sharp edges just barely grazing the tip of my nose, and looked over my shoulder with wide, wild eyes. The pocket watch’s hour hand lined up with the four. There wasn’t much time… I glanced to the eight, determining the seconds until I was killed, but found there was now a small piece of paper stuck over top, obscuring the number. A circle or symbol of some sort was drawn on it…

           I grunted as the walls moved, squeezing the breath out of me. I only had a few seconds… I tried to wrench my body sideways, first to the right.

           The hour hand advanced to 5am.

           When this didn’t work, I tried twisting to the left.

_Six…_

           But it was no use. I was hopelessly stuck.

_Seven…_

           I was out of time. I clasped my eyes shut.

            _I’m coming, Mum…Dad…Constance! Please, keep Justine safe…_

           And what was left of the air in my lungs I used in a scream for my life.

_Eight._

_CRUNCHSHH!_

           Suddenly, my eyelids popped open, my whole body lurching at the sound of the sickening splatter. I cast my panic-stricken gaze about the room I now found myself in, my chest heaving. Was I still alive? It seemed so…but how? I had been crushed… I dared to straighten, afraid this might be another trial of some sort. One that might involve decapitation if I sat up too fast. As I did, I looked round the room once more, this time registering what met my sights. I spotted plain white walls. One to the right of me hosted a window where not a single ray of sunlight shown through. Beside the window were a wooden bed stand hosting a lone lamp, currently on, and a bed which was completely made, free of any crease or sign it had been slept in. I glanced down in front of me and saw a desk that was populated with framed photographs obscured by piles of papers… I blinked. This was rather familiar… I looked near the floor. There was a chair and I was sat upon it. That's when it came to me. I had fallen asleep at my desk…

           At this realisation, my senses began to return. I could feel my glasses perched precariously askew on the tip of my nose, one lens over my left eye while the other was clear over my forehead. There was a stabbing crick in my neck that started off painful as a needle prick and gradually grew into a full-blown wooden stake. My whole body—muscles, bones, everything—felt as if it’d been pressed flat. I suppose it had been in a way… I adjusted my glasses while leaning my full weight into the back of my chair, giving myself a much needed drawn-out shoulder rub. What a wakeup call…

_BZZZZ… BZZZZ… BZZZZZZZ…_

           Pausing mid-massage, I looked to my bed stand where I expected to see my mobile, but it wasn’t there. At some point it had fallen on the floor and was now quivering along the carpet with each vibration.

_Talking of wakeup call…_

           Standing slowly from my desk chair, letting every bone pop with each movement, I made my way over and stooped to retrieve the mobile.

           “Hello, Clive Dove speaking,” I answered, stifling a yawn while rising to my feet. I had a sneaking suspicion I already knew who was on the other end.

           “Good morning, Clive!” sang a cheery voice.

 _Right on the money…_ “Good morning, Mary,” I greeted with a tired smile. Well, there was no getting back to sleep now… I headed out the door for the kitchen.

           “Did I wake you?” she asked, not out of concern. More…humour at hearing the grogginess in my voice. She did this nearly every morning, after all, and it apparently never grew old…

           “Not this time. Your loads of assignments beat you to the chase…” I replied with good-natured petulance then added, “As my editor, I expected better of you…”

           “Are you in need of more assignments, Mr Dove…?”

           “N-No, ma’am…”

           “Well, it’s too late!” Mary sang once more, cackling. “I have another assignment for you this morning!” I imagined her head thrown back, her hazel, nearly amber eyes coruscating with energy, her long, wavy locks of flaxen hair swirling as she spun in her desk chair. I stopped before the kettle, sighing. It was calls this early with this much liveliness that made me question the woman’s sanity. “Talking of,” she continued, quite a bit more composed, “where were you? I rang!”

           That solved a few mysteries already… Due to Mary’s earlier call my phone had begun to vibrate against my bed stand causing it to fall to the floor. And that vibrating must have manifested into the grinding those walls were making in my nightmare…

           “Ah, so you _are_ the culprit after all…” I accused as I put the kettle on.

           “What do you mean?”

           “Nothing, nothing…” Let’s just say you nearly got me killed… “Anyway,” I folded my free arm over my chest and leaned against the counter as the kettle began to simmer, “It’s five in the morning. What sort of news is happening at this hour?”

           “You’re an experienced journalist. You should know any news can happen at this hour.”

           “True, but I was talking more news that justifies me being awoken at five in the morning…”

           “Well,” she said, lingering on the word, “this is fairly important.” I noted the solemnity that suddenly cleared every trace of delight from her voice. “It’s a murder case.”

           My light-hearted demeanour also disappeared, replaced by a more grave melancholy. “So early, eh?”

           “Crime doesn’t have a specific time,” she said in a tone suggesting she was apologetically shrugging.

           “Yes,” I answered, my eyes finding the floor, “unfortunately so.” I decided to change the focus of the conversation to something more technical. “So what of the details?”

           “From what I’ve heard, the crime took place on Trent Road and the house number this time is 2300. The neighbours heard a load of racket this morning and decided to phone the police. That’s when the corpse of a little girl was found.”

           “Cause of death?”

           “I can’t say for sure as they’ve only just sent the body in for an autopsy, but the CSIs couldn’t seem to find any external injuries…”

           My brow furrowed. The kettle was boiling madly now.

           Mary continued. “Seems connected to the case we looked into at 2295…”

           The kettle clicked off.

           “That’s what I was thinking,” I said. I cocked my head to hold the mobile between ear and shoulder as I poured a cup of Earl Grey, my thoughts shifting to the murder that had transpired only last week. Just like this morning, I had been awoken by the sound of my cell phone ringing and Mary’s usually cheery voice taut with a gravity only bad news could instil in her.

           “ _There’s been a murder,_ ” she’d said. “ _Very close to here. I think it’d be best if you covered it, Clive_.”

           With that, I’d left for 2295, somehow both unsure of what to expect and also familiar with the scene I encountered when I arrived. Its parameter was cordoned off with yellow police tape. CSIs were split up into several different groups inspecting several different angles to the crime—at a white-taped outline where a body once lie, near luminol-sprayed ground in search of blood, some scattered about searching for a murder weapon. In the end, they had been unsuccessful in uncovering any clues or detaining a suspect, red flags that had stayed firmly planted in the back of my mind since.

           As I returned from these thoughts, my expression hardened. Ever since…London’s destruction nearly forty years ago now, it had been fairly free of any murders. But these two that had just cropped up…

           “Thanks for the information,” I told Mary. “I’ll be down there to investigate in a moment.”

           “Investigate?” she laughed. I knew she was smirking. “Don’t you mean take notes for an article?”

           My hard expression softened to a withering look. “Investigate sounds better.” And maybe I feel more accomplished pretending I’m a crime-solving detective instead of a pencil-pushing reporter…

           “Perhaps I should start calling you Inspector Dove now?”

           “That’s Commissioner Dove to you.”

           After ending the call on this less morose note, I settled down at the table with a mug of Earl Grey and saucer, delving back into the topic of these murders. Last week’s at 2295 and the one I would examine today at 2300 stuck out to me not only because they were the first two murders I’d investigate in quite some time, but for several other reasons as well. In both cases, the victims had suffered no external injuries, and the autopsy report on the victim from 2295 had shown no internal injuries or really any signs of what could have been the cause of death. I had an ominous inkling when the autopsy report came back for today’s victim, we’d see the same result.

           “…orning, Dad…”

           And both times the neighbours had complained of noise in the morning, yet the murder, at least for last week’s, had taken place sometime in the night. This, I’d learnt from Inspector Brown, the DCI on this case, was due to the culprit having moved the body. Would this appear in the autopsy report for today as well?

           Also… I slipped my hand into the pocket of my trousers I had slept in, my fingers brushing a small piece of paper. I was reminded of my nightmare. This little scrap had appeared on the eight of that massive pocket watch. I suppose it was on my mind because it had also been found in reality…on the body at 2295.

           “Dad…”

           I, as well as many other reporters and even the police, had considered it nothing but a scrap of paper. Even so I had sketched a copy for myself. I’m glad I did. I had a feeling I’d find another piece with a similar symbol when I investigated today. And if I did, I thought as I brought a curled pointer to my lips, could we be dealing with the same murderer? A serial killer? Where would he strike next? I clenched the piece of paper. How close was he…?

           Pain suddenly exploded in my forehead like a bullet piercing my skull and I recoiled as I shot my gaze up at my attacker. What met my eyes, however, was not a gunman or a murderer at all. It was my daughter, Justine. She was leaning in with her pointer poised near my forehead, her thin, dark eyes dancing with amusement, her lopsided smile suggesting she was barely able to hold in her laughter.

           “You all right, Dad…?” she asked as she sat down across from me, towelling off her black hair after a very early morning shower.

           I rubbed my forehead, chuckling sheepishly at myself as I settled back down in my chair.

           “A bit too preoccupied with my thoughts, I suppose…”

           She smiled mischievously.

           “Maybe you should be preoccupied with sleep. Those are some dark rings under your eyes.”

           I picked up my tea. “Nothing a cup of Earl Grey can’t fix.” And with that I took a sip. It was delicious as always, the steaming liquid that slipped down my throat, warming me from the inside-out. It was called ‘the cup that cheers’ for a reason.

           “Can a cup of Earl Grey fix that major bedhead you styled in your sleep?” Justine quipped.

           I ran a hand through my hair. Even without looking at it, I could tell it needed a bit of work.

           “I’ll have you know,” I began as I crossed my arms and gave her a self-satisfied look, “it can’t possibly be bedhead because I didn’t sleep in my bed.”

           Her concerned look returned. “Where did you sleep then? The roof?!”

           “My desk.”

           “Again?”

           “Again…”

           “Maybe you should go to bed when you’re supposed to?”

           “You’re one to talk…” I shot her a pointed look overtop the rim of my glasses as I took another sip of tea. After replacing the cup on its saucer I said, “You’re up at all hours! Last night I heard you sneaking round the kitchen at two. And it’s five now, yet here you are. What’s occupying your morning this time? Reading? Writing? A science experiment?”

           “A little bit of all of the above,” she said as she took a book out from the backpack she must have set down while I was pondering the murders. ‘ _Physics of the Future:_ _’_ I read the title, _‘How science will shape human destiny and our daily lives by the year 2100._ ’ Another one about quantum physics... When she had been younger she would request nothing but science books. For her birthday, Christmas, whenever we popped into a bookstore (which seemed more often every year). But quantum physics was a bit of a new subject for her, something she’d picked up within the last few months. I’d never seen her more interested in a topic of science. She seemed to devour these books like they were salmon burgers—her favourite meal. Last week it was ‘ _Hyperspace: scientific odyssey through parallel universes, time warps, and the 10th dimension._ ’ Next week I imagined she’d be reading something about how we actually have hundreds of dimensions and she’d been placed in the wrong one…

           “I’m taking notes on Michio Kaku’s latest and, by far, greatest book yet,” Justine answered. I could practically feel the warm fuzzies fluttering in her stomach as she presented the book like it was a holy relic. “I already did half of it last night. I’ll be finishing it this morning before I leave for the factory.”

           “That's really not normal for someone your age, reading those books not only for leisure but also when you’re meant to be asleep.” I said this facetiously but there may have been a hint of fatherly pride in my voice. “And after that, it's definitely not normal for someone your age to be awake at five in the morning.”

           “And it’s not normal for someone your age to be awake at all,” she countered. “You're so old you're meant to be sleeping forever…in a grave.” She snickered.

           Her interest in quantum physics might have been a new development but her poking fun at my age was not.

           “I liked it better when you were quiet…” I quipped then quickly added with a soft chuckle, “but of course I’m joking.” I was reminded not for the first time how a much younger Justine would barely speak to me let alone be comfortable enough to poke fun. Now that it was nearing the tenth anniversary of my adopting her I was noticing more and more how talkative and lively she was becoming. Of course I’d much rather hear joking than the silence of a once scared and confused orphan…

           “What was that, old man?”

           I gulped down the rest of my tea then stood from my seat, pretending not to have heard her. “Well I suppose I’d best get ready…”

           Upon entering the bathroom, I placed myself before the mirror and ran a hand through my hair again. Grey strands seemed to pop up more and more amongst the brown. I may have been denying it, but I felt as if they weren't necessarily indicative of my age. Dad had greyed rather early after all, so why wouldn’t I…? Well, in any case, I supposed, it still proved how much time had passed…

           In five minutes’ time I had showered, shaved and was dressed in a clean white button-up accompanied by a blue silken tie, olive-green vest and a pair of charcoal-black trousers. I would have put on my blazer if I was conducting a one-on-one interview, but since I’d only be asking around for initial information I left it for now and headed back to the kitchen.

           Justine was still sat where I’d left her, patiently waiting to leave for her Sunday internship. The manner in which she was reading so intently took me back to the first time she’d started the internship. One of the first indicators I could recall of Justine coming out of her shell was her expressing an interest in hands-on work. I had always noticed this interest as she would tinker around with various devices (such as taking apart the remote and attempting, not so successfully, to put it back together) and this hobby only became more destructive than productive as she grew older. That was when I conceded I needed help from Cogg, an old mate of mine. His specialty was woodworking and I knew I could trust him to hone my daughter’s detrimental pastime into a useful skill. After agreeing to this proposal I’d offered her, she sat reading into the next morning, too excited (though she certainly didn’t show it then) to sleep. Even on the way there she’d read in the car.

           “ _Cogg,_ ” I recalled a snippet of the conversation when we’d arrived. It had been a while since I’d last spoken to him myself and I could remember blinking in surprise when he had answered the door. “ _It’s good to see you again, mate. You seem to be doing well for your age!_ ” When I’d arrived at the old mansion, which Cogg was in the process of transforming into a rather large factory, I’d expected to be greeted by an elderly man, hunched over, leaning on a cane for support. He was in his late eighties after all. But instead I was met with the same gruff, burly bloke I’d grown up with, his sleeves rolled up, his muscular arms, chiselled face, once-white apron and trousers--everything--covered in grease and smoke, as always. The only effect time had seemed able to impose upon him was in his rather remarkable beard, now completely white.

           “ _Can’t complain, young sir_ ,” Cogg answered.

           I chuckled. “ _You can’t really call me by that title anymore, can you?_ ”

           “ _Well,_ ” a wide smile drew across his face, wrinkles creasing from the corners of his mouth and eyes, “ _you’re still much younger than me, you are!_ ”

           “ _I know our last meeting was quite some time ago and…quite a bit more stressful,_ ” I started.

           But before I could continue, Cogg held up a hand.

           “ _The past is the past, young sir. Please, let’s forget it and visit like we used to._ ” Again, a broad grin cracked across his wrinkled face and I knew he was serious about his proposal.

           Relieved, I returned his grin with an appreciative smile. “ _Right. Thank you, Cogg. It means a lot._ ” Eager to take him up on the proposal, my demeanour shifted to one of excitement. “ _I have someone you should meet._ ” I held a hand out to my daughter. “ _Justine, say—_ ” I had expected to see her at my side, but as I looked down I noticed she was hiding behind my legs.

           Justine had been scared of Cogg and I had completely understood why. His outgoing and confident comportment, his build, that enormous beard—like some defence mechanism an animal used to scare off even bigger prey… He had always looked so imposing to me as well. But I knew Justine had nothing to worry about. The man was much like a teddy bear. Though tough-looking on the outside, his rough cockney accent and, at times, foul language not helping much, he was, on the inside, caring for those he was loyal to. After only a few days of working in the factory-turned-mansion, Justine had become comfortable enough to start referring to Cogg as ‘Uncle’ and from that point forward, she’d continued working there. Just this year she’d started her real internship, shadowing a lab tech from the quality control department for more experience in a laboratory position.

           I couldn’t help the misty sheen welling in my eyes as the memory of my once little daughter reading so intently returned to the young woman she had become. We’d grown so close over the years. I had to admit I still felt a bit of a chasm between us, like we couldn’t fully trust each other because we weren’t blood. But perhaps it was something less worrying than that. After all, Justine was about to graduate secondary school and progress onto university where she’d become even more independent than she already was…

           In an effort to clear my head of these thoughts, I glanced to the book in her hands. It was yet another physics book. ‘ _Higgs: The invention and discovery of the ‘God Particle,_ ’’ I read as I walked for the door, straightening my tie.

            “You’re so very intelligent to understand book after book of quantum physics,” I said in wonder to myself as I slipped on my black Oxfords. Justine lifted her eyes and when I saw she’d heard I teasingly thrust my pointed nose in the air. “Clearly you take after your father.”

           Justine laughed. “That’s a pretty clear indicator I'm adopted, then.”

           “Alright…” I drawled. “Don’t you go getting cheeky now. I can’t have you lightening the mood when I’m off to such a serious scene.”

           “What is it this time?”

           “Murder,” I answered bluntly. “Just the subject I like waking up to…”

           I watched as Justine’s brow furrowed minutely, her smile now replaced with a small frown. It was a look I didn’t see often, one that reminded me all too well of how quiet she could really be. She hid her more negative emotions and because of this the expression was so quickly gone from her face I barely had time to note it, but I knew what I said had upset her, made her angry. She detested crime, as did I. She was definitely appropriately named.

           “I’ll have another interview this morning, so I won’t be home until after you’re done at the mansion,” I said. I attempted to lighten the mood. “Take care of the house while I’m gone, and please make sure not to blow anything up while you’re researching…”

           She seemed to relax. Good.

           “If I blow something up,” she called, “I’ll just rebuild it with Uncle Cogg before you get back!”

           I gave her a teasing warning look then headed out.

           I made my way down the streets of London, the streetlamps and multitudes of signs winking out as the sun began to rise, and kept watch for 2300 Trent Road where the crime scene awaited me. When I approached the cordoned yellow tape minutes later, I flashed my press pass to a CSI before stepping underneath. A few other CSIs were scattered about, some dusting for prints, some spraying luminol near a taped outline of a child’s body which was half hidden by the house’s screen door. I didn’t wish to bother them right away. Instead, like last week’s murder, I walked about the parameter, careful where I stepped so as not to contaminate the scene and its evidence, and proceeded to record the address, the body’s outline, the state of the house, basic details to begin my future article.

           Based on the previous murder and the many others I’d witnessed quite a while ago when I was a much younger journalist, this looked fairly standard. But even if it had been more gruesome I was hardened to it by now. I knew what tragedy was and the many forms it could take, from a murder as clean as this to something…a bit more full scale. Even so, this didn’t stop my more human side from feeling pity for the victim’s loved ones, whoever they may be. A mother, a father, an adopted family… They must have been wondering how such a young life was stolen from them for seemingly no reason and why the answer to coping was to move on and hope it didn’t happen again. No one could turn back time and stop the event, after all. They must be suffering…

           But as I circled the entire area, I soon realised there didn’t seem to be any relatives here. No one speaking with the officers, no one grieving. That was odd…or perhaps not… Now that I thought on it, last week I’d not spotted a single person mourning the victim either… I flipped back a few pages in my notepad, reading over a note I’d made last week about missing relatives. Yes, it was true… A myriad of questions that I instantly craved the answers to filled my mind—was their family also killed? Missing? Held hostage?—but I knew I couldn’t ponder on them. Though this was a connection to the 2295 murder, at this point I could only speculate uselessly until I had more evidence to come to a logical conclusion. The least I could do was speak with the police and see if I could glean any new information from them.

           This in mind, I finished my initial notes and walked up to the group of CSIs. In the centre of their circle was a man dressed in a DCI uniform: black suit and tie, an officer’s hat with a chequered pattern round the crown and three diamond pips on his epaulettes. DCI Kurt Brown, if I remembered correctly. I’d only heard his name last time as he’d been too busy for me to meet him and properly introduce myself. Even so I knew enough about him from what other newspapers had been saying. He was a young Interpol agent from the United States who was sent out to investigate many crimes from around the world. A very blunt, no-nonsense detective. I liked the sound of it.

           “Good morning, Mr Dove,” the Inspector said upon seeing me. I blinked. He knew my name? I glanced down at a large pocket in his suit jacket, noticing a newspaper featuring _London Now,_ my agency’s name. So he must enjoy my articles… I couldn’t help feeling a bit flattered. He stepped up and shook my hand. “Detective Inspector Brown. Got some information you reporters might want to jot down.” Those newspapers had been right. He may have been young but he was wise beyond his years. I already liked him, especially his straightforward approach. Right down to business. “We first arrived here after we received a call from the couple in that house there,” he nodded to the neighbour’s house. I quickly noted this as I’d be visiting them next. “While searching around, we found the body of a young girl, about eight years old, lying face-down in the doorway. Sent her in for autopsy and just now received the report.”

           I blinked again. “Already?” Though I’d re-entered journalism a few years ago already, I’d never heard of an autopsy taking so little time. And when I was a journalist before it certainly took longer. Much longer.

           “You’re questioning the timing of the autopsy. We’ve just installed a Virtual Autopsy table. Something Switzerland had been working on for quite a while. We decided to give it a try.” He glanced to me and added, “It may be a new-fangled device, but it’s quite accurate.”

           I had been attempting to hide the disdain that had crept onto my features but he must have noticed. It wasn’t that I was against technology, but…

           “Still not convinced, Mr Dove?” Detective Brown remarked. I realised then my features had tightened even more and relaxed them a bit. My, he was observant. But then again, that’s what made a good inspector. I couldn’t help but respect him even more.

           “I suppose,” I began slowly, returning to the topic of this Virtual Autopsy table, “I’m just worried about the accuracy of crime solving. Has this device been tested enough to really be useful in forensics?”

           He gave me a look.

           “Shouldn’t the crime solving be left up to the crime solvers?”

           I clenched my teeth. This comment rubbed me the wrong way… But then I let up when I searched his face and saw his expression of genuine question. He wasn’t being condescending. He was merely asking. I was reminded not for the first time how I was only a reporter. Not a detective. Not even a CSI. A reporter. A middleman between the real crime solvers and the general public. Though, I had to admit it was a bit unfair to be seen as a mere messenger when my passion involved crime solving and mysteries as well…

           “In any case,” Detective Brown continued, drawing my attention back, “I assure you, the Virtual Autopsy table was tested for years before its implementation into forensics. It’s efficient, effective and, per your original unspoken inquiry, fast, hence the reason we have the autopsy report at this time instead of days, even weeks later.”

           Well, as long as it helps deliver justice... I silently complied.

           “Recall how the victim last week at 2295 didn’t have any external or internal injuries.” the Detective returned to reporting on the crime. I nodded, feeling I knew what he was about to say as I poised pen over notepad. “Our victim here is the exact same. No external or internal injuries. And the medical examiner found no sign of what could have possibly killed her, same as 2295’s victim. It’s certainly a puzzle.” He shook his head. “Also, the killer left this behind.”

           I finished what I was writing and looked up to see the Inspector pull from his trench coat a small plastic bag with a piece of paper inside, holding it up to me. I eyed it, noting the ripped edges, like it had been hastily torn out from a larger sheet, the circle scrawled on it outlined in white ink, the symbol that appeared to be an hourglass within the circle. Just as I thought. Again, my nightmare returned to me of the little scrap placed over the eight on the pocket watch. I slipped my hand into my trouser pocket and pulled out the piece I had crumpled up when Justine startled me, holding it up next to the one Inspector Brown had. A grave expression stole over my features. The two were identical.

           “You catch on quick,” Inspector Brown continued as he returned the other scrap to his pocket. “We dusted the scrap for prints, like last time, but we haven’t uncovered anything yet. We’ll stay hesitant to label this a direct connection to the case last week as it’s still far too early to know, but if you ask me, this seems fairly cut-and-dry.”

           I nodded. “I agree, Inspector. I hope we…er, _you_ can piece this together quickly.” And, I added silently, perhaps with how eager I am for answers, I myself just might impersonate a private I…

           Now that my earlier suspicions had been confirmed, my mind filed through even more questions. I still didn’t pay these thoughts any heed, as, again, it was just mere speculation, however, I couldn’t stop the feeling of anxiety that made my insides squirm. Certainly we were dealing with something sinister as two lives had been taken by likely the same person. But just _how_ sinister was the question…

           Talking of questions, I thought as I recalled what had drawn me over here in the first place. “By the way,” I asked Inspector Brown, “do you know of any relatives that had been with the girl? Or a guardian of some sort? Surely she lived with someone?”

           “We’re not sure of that yet,” Inspector Brown replied, my curiosity feeding on his words, insatiable, as I rapidly penned this down. “But we do suspect this victim, like the one at 2295, was moved from the original crime scene to this house to throw us off.”

           I noted this as well. It wasn’t much, but at least it was another piece of the puzzle that would eventually connect to the truth.

           I finished up my time at the scene by speaking with the neighbours who were both very willing to give me their side of the story. They mentioned the noise they’d heard, which had sounded like a lot of bashing and thumping, like something stomping up and down the stairs. I noted this may have been the noise made by the culprit when moving the body. This noise awoke them at four in the morning and they’d decided to check on what they had previously known to be a vacant house to make sure nothing had happened. That’s when they found the body and phoned the police.

           “Thanks for your time,” I told the couple, handing them a business card. “Don’t hesitate to contact me if you remember any more information you’d like to discuss.”

           As the couple shut the door, I stepped back, jotting down the last of my thoughts until suddenly something bumped my elbow causing my pen to scrawl an ugly scar across my notes. I looked over my shoulder to see what had happened…and wished I had ignored it. What met my surprised gaze was a man with swept-back hair, gold and silver like the pound coins that, alongside the many, many banknotes, lined his fat wallet. His all too familiar cocky grin accentuated the cold, piercing condescension in his ice-blue eyes, and his hands were stowed in his steel-grey suit pockets, his posture leaned back, vaunting, looking as though he owned the place. Richard… He was a journalist as well, one whom, I hate to admit, was quite the formidable rival. I might even consider him an arch-nemesis, but I’d rather not give him any other reasons to inflate that already oversized ego of his…

           “ _Dove_ ,” he greeted derisively. As ever, it was too much trouble to address me by my full name or add a bit of inflection to his voice…

           “Good morning, Richard,” I greeted _properly_. I brought a hand up to my tie, my thumb and pointer fiddling with the knot. It helped to imagine it as his and that my grip was just tight enough to make breathing difficult.

           “What’s an _inferior_ reporter such as yourself doing _here_?” Richard continued. “Don’t you know people will want to _read_ about this murder? Therefore, this is _my_ turf.”

           His drawling, pompous tone was starting to get to me but I ignored it and cocked my head while folding my arms over my chest.

           “Ah, so you’re the murderer in this case, are you? Well I can’t thank you enough for confessing. That gives me a much shorter article to write.” His sneer wavered and I couldn’t help the spark of triumph that burst like a firecracker in my chest.  “Shall I call the police over now or let you turn yourself in?”

           “Listen here, _Dove_ ,” he jabbed a finger at me, “we both know _The Daily_ is _far_ more popular than _London Now_ , so don’t go gettin’ _cheeky_ like this case will earn your rundown, bought-out, _shadow_ of an agency any points…”

           I shrugged. “At least _I_ write objectively.” A patronising chuckle escaped me. “And _my_ newspaper isn’t a tabloid that gains tin-foil hat-wearing readers who wish to learn about the next alien invasion.” I cocked my head to the other side, giving him my shrewdest smile. “I can already see the title for your article on this murder case. ‘Extra-terrestrials abduct little girl, copy her organs and mysteriously kill her as warning of future invasion’…”

           Richard only countered my smirk with one of his own. “We’ll see who’s _laughing_ when I finish my article and _your_ paper dries up from lack of subscribers. _The Daily_ will become even _more_ popular and _London Now_ will be known as _London Never_!” And with that, he strut off to the police, cackling away like the arch-nemesis he was.

 _Yes, that’s what you always say!_ I wanted to yell at him. Instead, I turned back to my notepad and hastily crossed out my previous notes, the ones Richard had caused me to scrawl over, and began to take new, _objective_ notes on the case.

           It was true, my agency, _London Now_ , wasn’t as well-known as his. Even so, I was working hard to write not only factually, but also creatively so as to gain more readers. All it would take was one brilliant subject to pop up…and perhaps these murders were just what I needed…

           I blinked. What was I thinking?! A murder wasn’t meant to be used as a way to achieve more readers! That was something Richard would think to do. Not me!

           Suddenly, a squelching growl emanated from my protesting stomach, breaking through my internal struggle. I glanced to my watch. It was half-six and I’d not yet eaten a proper breakfast. I’d leave my squabbling over Richard and his antics for another time. For now, I needed to prepare for my eleven o’clock interview, and that included eating.

           I traced the route I had taken onto Trent Road back, the streets more populated as the sun rose higher above the horizon, ushering in the more normal awakening hours, and only minutes later I returned home through the entrance door that led into the kitchen. As I slipped off my Oxfords, I saw Justine had already left and there was a pan of rice mixed with veg and meat on the stovetop. A note sat on the counter next to it. ‘Here’s a meal I didn’t blow up. Help yourself, Dad’ I read, smiling to myself. At the end she’d drawn some sort of Japanese or Chinese character that resembled a smiling face. What was it she called that? Emoshi? Emoji? She’d told me so many times but I couldn’t seem to remember anything that had to do with technology. Even my mobile was now obsolete compared to the newest Strawberrys and Cyborgs or whatever they were labelled these days… I suppose it was no wonder I was bias against that Virtual Autopsy table…

           I didn’t spend long at home. After I had eaten a plateful of the rice and egg Justine had left, some hash browns I’d cooked myself, a bowl of cereal, downed another cup (or two) of Earl Grey, and finished up a few rough drafts of those nightmare-inducing articles, I slipped on my blazer and left for my interview.

           I was eager to arrive early as Mr Tysan, the man I was conducting it with, had a very interesting archaeological scoop for my paper. And perhaps if I got there early enough a certain someone might be at work… This certain someone, a boy named Fayne, I disliked even more than Richard and his snarky smile. He was a womanising teenage _punk_ …and…he fancied Justine… I felt ill just thinking about it… As I approached the Tysan house and stepped up to the door I imaged it to be Fayne’s face and knocked extra hard. Justine didn’t know how much I detested Fayne and I’d rather keep it that way. Then I could continue to spy on them without either of them knowing, make certain they weren’t up to anything…suspicious…

           Upon hearing approaching footsteps, I looked up to see a tall silhouette in the door’s crystal frame. My nose wrinkled in disgust. Bloody…! I was sure he worked at eight on Sundays! Moments later, the door opened to reveal Fayne. Had he become more muscular since last I saw him? Just another reason to detest him. I’m sure he used that physique to his advantage with many young women… I wouldn’t let Justine be one of them…

           “Ayup, Miste’ Dove,” Fayne greeted with a grin that was always too cheery for my liking. Here it comes…  “’ow's Justine been?”

           And there it is…

           “Morning, Fayne,” I replied shortly. “She’s fine. Is your father—”

           “Ee, brillian’!” Fayne interrupted. My brow creased in irritation. As the boy continued on I could feel my frown deepening. “She’s no’ been on-line today… Wou’d yea tell ‘er Ah say ‘hi’?”

           “Certainly. Now, then—”

           “An’ cou’d yea ask ‘er t’ come ove’ sumtime today?”

           My jaw clenched.

           “I'll see what I can do…” I said through my teeth. “Now would you please—”

           “Ah’ll jus’ tex’ ‘er an’—Oh, wai’! Ah forgo’! She alrea’y invi’ed me ove’ there!”

           “She…did…” I responded slowly, my mind digesting this information much like my stomach would a greasy burger.

           “Yeah, innit tha’ grea’! Anyway, Ah’ll go grab me mam. See ya round, Miste’ Dove!”

           And with that he shut the door. I stood there for a moment, trying to understand why exactly I’d bought Justine a cell phone capable of making any call other than ones designated for emergencies and then devising a plan on how I could put a stop to Fayne’s visiting my house when a voice interrupted my thoughts.

           “Miste’ Dove.” I looked to see Fayne’s mother at the door now. I’d only glimpsed her a few times a while ago when I would walk Justine over to the Tysan house, before Fayne had hit that rather dangerous age, but I could tell she seemed much thinner than before. Almost unhealthily so… “Please come in.”

           I had expected to see Mr Tysan, but the greeting was so stony and filled with conviction I was at a loss for words, so I gave her a curt nod before following her in. If only Fayne could be as level-headed as his mother… As we entered the dining room she held her hand out towards a chair at the table.

           “Please, si’down. I’ll make us a brew before we begin. Do yea ‘ave a preference?"

           Though I’d just downed a cup before I’d left, I decided to take the offer. I’d need it in order to gain back the energy Fayne had just sapped from me. “Earl Grey, if you would, please.”

           I seated myself as Mrs Tysan left and looked around while waiting. Though I’d been in the house many times before, I’d not taken the time to really appreciate their décor since I was quite the minimalist when it came to my own home. The walls were painted a sandy brown and everywhere I looked there seemed to be some artefact or another poised on the wall or set out on a small table. It gave the home an ancient though cosy feel. There were also some rolled up maps and other artefacts in various boxes near the door. If I hadn’t known Fayne for seven years (unfortunately) I’d assume the family had just moved in. Perhaps they were only transporting some excess items to the garage or another area as the house was definitely well-covered with the stuff.

           Mrs Tysan soon returned with a cup of Earl Grey.

           “Thank you,” I said. As I took the cup I noticed she was seating herself before me. I gave her a confused look. “Isn’t your husband…”

           “’E’s no’ in at the moment,” she answered, “and I though’, sin’ yea needed sum insigh’ inte’ archaeology, yea cou’d ‘ave me opinion fer now while ‘e’s awt.”

           “You’re an archaeologist as well?” I questioned, cocking my head slightly to the side. This was news to me.

           She looked away and I could see a nervous flush on her cheeks. I blinked in wonder, curious as to why this emotion had arisen.

           “Yes… Sorreh I’ve neve’ told yea. Yea jus’ always seem rathe’ busy…”

           Though this did ruin my original plan, I dismissed her apology with a wave of my hand. “It’s not a problem. I can interview Mr Tysan at a different time. Besides, it would be nice to get some news from you and what you do to add to my article.”

           As I glanced to her, her cheeks flushed again. Did she wish to speak with me on archaeological matters, or something else…? I wondered. In any case, I was eager to hear what she had to say so I began with the interview, pen and notepad at the ready.

           “First, a bit about what you do, please, Mrs Tysan.”

           She hesitated, then met my eyes. “Probably mos’ people imagine all we archaeologists eve’ do is dig, bu’…we spen’ a lo’a time in our labs researchin’ wha’ we’ve found anall.”

           This I already knew. At one time I myself had met a very special archaeologist, one who was famous all across London and much of the world, in fact.

           “I’m sure you’ve heard of Hershel Layton?” I decided to enquire. This wasn’t part of my article, but I couldn’t help asking. After all, I’d not seen the man in several years.

           “’ershel… Oh, yea mean th’ Professe’. Yes, ‘e’s taugh’ us much ove’ th’ years, both in the university and awtside of it. I wen’ on a dig wi’ ‘im recently.”

           “Did you?” I said, poising my notepad to begin writing again. “What was it you uncovered?”

           “A very special ar’efact,” she said.

           This piqued my interest. “Mind if I have a look at it?”

           I noticed she seemed hesitant, her eyes finding the floor, her brow creasing as if someone was disappointed with her, but she stood up, retrieved something out of one of the boxes near the door and held it out to me. It was a scroll of some sort, blanketed with dust, yellowed with age, and I felt the mystery of the thing grip my attention instantly like sweets to a child. After a few moments, I managed to tear my eyes away and continued on with my interview.

           “So you mentioned this is special to you. Any particular reason why?”

           “This is th’ scroll tha’ led to wha’ we uncovered.”

           My brow furrowed. Hadn’t she said this scroll _was_ what she had uncovered? “So you didn’t find this scroll on a dig?”

           “Nay. This scroll ‘e… _I_ used to theorise wha’ wou’d be uncovered.”

           I was a bit confused. Mrs Tysan didn’t seem able to keep her story straight…

           “Oh… Miste’ Dove?” I turned my attention to her and when I met her eyes, she gave me an apologetic look. “I forgo’… I ‘ave summat I need to attend to. I’m sorry to cu’ th’ in’ehview shor’, bu’ if it’ll make it up to yea, ‘e…I mean _I_ ‘ave a few more documents in me office on wha’ I’ve discovered. If yea don’ mind, I’ll jus’ be a moment.”

           Before I could say anything, she was off. What a bizarre interview this had turned into… Well, in any case at least I still had time before this article would need to be written. I’d just make sure to get hold of Mr Tysan and conduct the interview I was meant to. Maybe these documents Mrs Tysan had would help me make a bit more sense of what she’d been saying.

           While waiting, I picked up the cup she had offered and took a few generous gulps of Earl Grey, eying the scroll in my hands. Again I was spellbound. I heard a door swing open and shut, but didn’t really register it as I set my cup on the saucer and began to unfurl the ancient artefact. Jumbled letters and numbers mixed together were revealed to me on the top-most portion of the scroll. I couldn't read them, but even so, my eyes scanned every inch of the thing.

           That was until I looked a bit further down and something caught my attention. Seven circles were drawn in a cycle of sorts, each a different colour, like a rainbow, and each hosting a symbol inside. A set of scales, a ray of light, a book, a droplet of what appeared to be blood…an hourglass… I swallowed, suddenly anxious. If I wasn’t mistake, these circles, especially the one with the hourglass I was currently eyeing, were very similar to those on the scraps of paper… And those had been placed on—

           “These ar’ sum’a th’ things I’ve discovered.”

           My nerves jumped at the sound of Mrs Tysan re-entering the room, but I didn’t allow this surprise to register on my features. I turned to see she was carrying a folder bulging with a mess of papers which she handed over to me, the weight of it nearly dropping me to the floor.

           “Thank you, Mrs Tysan,” I said, allowing a smile to touch my lips as I hefted the folder onto both hands. My thoughts, however, were reeling. If what was on this scroll really matched those scraps of paper, Mrs Tysan could have been in on the murders… Of course, I didn’t feel strongly about this speculation, but I still considered it a possibility. I had been through enough to know one moment of doubt was all it took before the tables were turned. “Quite the amount of discoveries you’ve made!” I commented. I would end this interview as discreetly as possible then be on my way. Thank goodness she was in a hurry to get on with her own schedule or I would have had to scheme up a way to leave without looking suspicious. And I’d like to consider my scheming days over…

           “Yes…” I watched her expression closely as she responded. It seemed to relax, like she had done something right and an authority figure had praised her. “Many of th’ ar’efacts are described in grea’ detail in there. It’s a bi’ disorganised as I’ve been cleaning awt th’ ‘ouse,” I noticed her face harden again, her brow creasing, her lips pursing, at this statement, “bu’ yer free t’ take it wit’ an’ look it ove’ fer as long as yea need it. Me ‘usband shall be in sumtime this week. I’ll le’ ‘im know yea wish t’ speak wit’ ‘im.”

           “Thank you for your time, Mrs Tysan,” I said as I turned towards the door. “I’ll be looking forward to interviewing your husband.”

           I nodded while watching her face even closer. Last week I’d phoned their home number to set up the interview and Mrs Tysan had picked up. When I’d asked for Mr Tysan’s mobile phone number, she’d sidestepped the request the same way she was doing now. Explaining to me she would inform him of my interview. Obviously that hadn’t turned out so well this time… And I knew based on that worried expression—crinkled brow, deep frown, chewing the inside of her lip—that, once again, she would not be informing him… It was a good job I had only forgotten I really did have Mr Tysan’s number and could phone him later, but even so, why would Mrs Tysan wish to prevent my contacting him…?

           Again, her features hardened as I said this. So very curious…

           With this, I took my leave. As I put a bit of distance between myself and the Tysan house, I glanced over my shoulder. These murders, the scraps of paper that seemed to coincide with that scroll… This mystery was growing. And with it, the feeling I was being watched. Who knew just inside the house I’d visited many times over the years there would be some ancient scroll that either foreshadowed the murders or was a catalyst to them… For now I’d return home and continue to work as usual. But this case would not be far from my mind.


End file.
